knock knock
The door's sharp knock jolted her upright, gray eyes narrowing as it creaked open.
Kael stepped in, casual as ever, holding two plates of grilled chicken—golden, juicy, the savory aroma curling through the air like a taunt.
"Made lunch," he said, his voice light but edged with mockery. "Figured you'd need it after torching yours to ash."
Freya's glare could've melted steel, her cheeks still flushed from earlier.
"I'm not hungry," she snapped, voice tight, arms crossing over her chest to hide the hard peaks of her nipples pressing against her t-shirt. "Get out, Kael."
He ignored her, setting one plate on the bed beside her, the scent of perfectly seasoned meat wafting up, teasing her empty stomach.
"I know you, Freya—you love food," he said, hazel eyes glinting as he pulled a chair over, settling opposite her. "Skipping lunch'll just fuel that temper of yours. Plus, you must be wiped after that kitchen ordeal."
